Audrey T. Williams
Memories from a child of the Great Migration
I. Earth
The cradle of Earth, where roots entwine and stories unfold, A grounding presence whispers softly, A call to ancestry, to history, a tether to the soil of our genesis. Two souls, bound by land and fate, Met in the halls of Philander Smith College in Little Rock, A union forged, hearts ablaze, As Dad became keeper of the hearth.
From verdant Arkansas, to the pulsing heart of Oakland, A voyage embarked, a family woven, Treading upon the land of dreams and chances, In a world reborn…a family took flight in 1953.
Seeking not escape, but life anew, A better world, a brighter stage, They ventured West, following the trail, Paved by friends and kin from the wartime haze.
Little Rock, a haven of memory, sings its siren song, Where Mama’s side reclined and reveled in porch tales, Spun in the summer sun, ghostly haints wandering through woods, As our stories danced in the twilight.
Summers beckoned, drawing them back, To the land of ancestry, of love and loss, Arkansas embraced them warmly, A reminder of a life once known.
In Oakland, migration families entwined, Familiar faces, shared stories, roots entangled, Finding their people, kindred spirits, A patchwork of lives, a tapestry of hope.
Eyes cast forward, to the horizon, Seeking opportunity, the lure of the unknown, better to be a janitor in San Francisco than mayor of Little Rock, A testament to dreams, to choices made.
The South remained, To those who stayed, who found their peace, Yet, for the wanderers, the seekers of new, The Earth embraced them, roots ensnared.
Fond remembrance of Arkansas, the vast expanse of red brick houses, And sprawling lawns, where dreams take flight, The Earth remains, a grounding force, A call to remember, to cherish, to unite.
II. Water
In the realm of water, where memories ebb and flow, A tender moment captured, a father’s tears exposed, At four years young, a vision etched in time, The grief of loss, a mother’s embrace now distant.
How fleeting, how rare, to witness such vulnerability, The quiet strength of fathers, unmasked by sorrow,
As tears carve rivers, shaping life’s terrain, Grieving mamas, yielding to the passage of time.
Rivers teach us, in whispers and gentle tides, The art of pause, of pooling in the stillness,
To gather strength, to find solace in the calm, Before cascading onward, toward new horizons.
A journey through the sun-kissed San Bernardino, A decade steeped in change, in hope, in strife, Two siblings leapt, into a pool of innocence, Unaware of the chasm, the divide that lay within.
As brother and sister frolicked, carefree and alive, The world around them paused, a silent observation, White faces watched, their laughter stifled, contained, Yet in the water, unity lingered, a boundless connection.
And so, with a plunge, the dam of hesitation crumbled, All’s well that ends well, as all bodies rejoined the fray, A testament to the power of water, its healing embrace, Bridging divides, dissolving barriers, in a dance of unity and play.
In the language of water, a story unfolds, Of grief and joy, of bonds transcending time, For water knows the depth of every heart, And in its flow, we find our hope, yours and mine.
III. Air
In the realm of air, where scents unfurl like whispered secrets, A symphony of aromas dances, tantalizing, evocative, Southward bound, where hand pies sizzle and sing, Their golden crusts concealing treasures of delight.
Possum pie, a misnomer, a ruse to beguile, The chocolate within, a symphony of sweetness, A hymn to the art of home, of comfort and sustenance, A testament to the culinary legacy that binds us.
Vanilla memories, tendrils of scent, a sweet embrace, A mother’s teacakes, a legacy of love, of devotion, Miss Vivian’s recipe, preserved in ink and time, A treasure unearthed, a connection rekindled.
Through trials and tribulations, the teacakes took shape, Vanilla adjusted, a voice echoing from the past, Guidance from beyond, a gentle hand on the shoulder, A sister’s validation, the recipe nearing perfection.
Teacakes, an emblem of lineage, a symbol of togetherness, A British genesis, a Southern sojourn, a tale of transformation, Passed down through generations, an enduring ritual, A bridge to the past, a link to the love that sustains us.
Summer quilting bees, a gathering of hands and hearts, Teacakes and sweet tea, an offering of comfort and care, Grandmother’s touch, a memory etched in time, The air, a medium for remembrance, a conduit to the past.
In the dance of air, the swirl of aroma and memory, We find more of our stories, our histories, woven in scents and tastes, An ode to the bonds that nourish us, the connections that define us, And in this communion, we breathe in the essence of who we are.
Miss Vivian’s Tea Cakes
- 1 cup sugar
- 2 sticks butter or margarine
- 1 egg
- 2 cups flour
- 2 teaspoons vanilla
- ½ teaspoon soda
- ½ teaspoon cream of tartar
- 2 tablespoons milk
- Cream sugar and butter; add egg, flour and next four ingredients.
- Bake at 375 degrees for 10-12 minutes.
- Makes about 1 ½ dozen cookies depending on size of tea cake.
IV. Fire
In the crucible of fire, where history is forged and shaped, A blaze of passion, of resistance, of change ignites, The year was 1959, a nation at the precipice, As the brave Little Rock Nine dared to challenge it all.
This, the fire of the times, a beacon of hope and strife, In the smoldering embers of a divided land, A spark of courage, of defiance, kindling transformation, An inferno of progress, a testament to the will to overcome.
As 1968 dawned, the winds of change swept the nation, In Dallas, those who jeered in years past became all yessir and yes ma’am, a fragile harmony emerged, Racial integration, a phoenix rising from the ashes,
Through the years, a constant thread, a steady flame endured, Dera, the writer, reader, storyteller, a scribe of history, A witness to the fire, the searing heat of progress, With so much to share, an offering of wisdom, of truth.
In the dance of fire, where embers glow and sparks take flight, a tapestry of tales woven aflame, A conflagration of courage, resistance, and unity,
To Dera, keeper of stories, retold, remembered, fiercely everlasting, may your words always stay aflame.
